


A Softer World

by janvandyne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Body Worship, F/M, Hair-pulling, Panic Attacks, Praise Kink, Sub Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 01:53:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7413958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janvandyne/pseuds/janvandyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bucky and Steve get invited to live in Stark Tower after the events of Civil War and you give Bucky the help and attention that he deserves.</p>
<p>Equal parts plot and porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_I called my therapist yesterday in a panic._  
_I said, “What if the sky falls again?”_  
_And she said, “Well, what if you fall in love?”_

* * *

* * *

 

“So, what you’re saying is, Stark wants me to be a lab rat?”

You sigh and shake your head. This conversation is definitely not going the way you planned, but you’re still hopeful. At least they agreed to a conversation, which had been your best case scenario. Anything extra is just a bonus, you figure, because Steve Rogers and James Barnes have fallen off the grid since _the incident_ , and a meeting is an honor few people have had the privilege of receiving in the last few months.

“This is state of the art technology,” you explain. “ _Binarily Augmented Retro Framing_ is revolutionary. It will allow you to revisit your trauma and alter the memory. And, hopefully, eventually, overcome it.”

Barnes gives you a dismissive chuckle and sinks down lower in his seat, spreading his legs wider, planting his feet flat on the ground. You had declined to sit earlier when you entered their safe house, and you’re glad you made that decision.

Despite the current circumstance, you can’t help but notice how incredibly attractive Sergeant Barnes is. It’s an unprofessional thought, but harmless, you suppose, as long as you don’t act on it. Which will be a challenge, because you like the way that his big blue eyes look up at you from that angle. You like the way that he keeps eye contact with you as you take a few steps towards to him, closing the distance between yourself and the small kitchen table.

“Do you have concerns, Sergeant Barnes?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’d be more than happy to address them.”

He’s still smirking, but there’s a little less derision in it. A little less arrogance in the gleam of his doe eyes. “Sorry, ma’am,” he says, his voice finding a medium somewhere between the hard Brooklyn boy and the well-mannered soldier that he is, “but I don’t think revisiting my trauma is such a good idea.”

“I understand, but –“

“I don’t think you realize that revisiting certain memories will not only not have the desired effect on me, but may have the opposite effect.”

Barnes is fidgeting in his chair now, knocking his knees together, and then spreading them open again. You can see his fist clench and unclench from its place on the table.

From his place opposite Barnes, you can tell that Rogers is wanting to say something, but he doesn’t. You recognize and appreciate the gesture. He’s allowing Barnes to try to process his emotions and express them the way he sees fit. He’s giving him the agency to act according to what he feels is appropriate.

You like Rogers a little more after that.

“I am a weapon to be used,” Barnes continues. “I can’t always control my actions.”

“That’s what Mr. Stark is trying to fix,” you tell him.

“There’s no fixing me!” he says, slamming his fist twice on the table alongside his words.

You visibly jump at the sudden movement, and he notices. He takes a deep breath and calms himself. He doesn’t look at you, but he says, softer than before, “There are some cracks that can’t be fixed.”

You take a step closer, hoping that the two other occupants attribute it to the scant space, the intimate subject. “Don’t you at least think it’s worth a shot?” you ask him. “Don’t you think you’re worth it?”

“I’m dangerous,” he says as he looks back up at you. His eyes are reddening. “What if something goes wrong?”

You could touch him if you wanted to, you were so close. Reach out and touch him and tell him that you didn’t think he was dangerous, that he wouldn’t do anything to hurt anyone on his own volition. You couldn’t, though, because that would be inappropriate given the situation. You have a job to do and Tony trusts you to do it right.

So, instead you say, “Hopefully, Captain Rogers would be there to accompany Mr. Stark with the process, if any issues should arise.”

“Issues,” Barnes repeats, and he laughs again, a little more out of control than before.

“The program can cause certain symptoms at first – stress, anxiety, panic.” Both men scoff, but you continue. “You’re reliving trauma. It’s not going to be easy. It’s going to be very, very hard. But it will be worth it in the end.”

“For Stark,” Rogers says, his first words since the conversation started.

“It will be mutually beneficial,” you tell Rogers, then turn back to Barnes. “Don’t you want your life back?”

“Is this my only option?” Barnes asks.

“No,” you say, “but it is the best one. It’s either this or a supermax facility in the middle of the Atlantic.”

Barnes sits upright in his chair, tensing, causing him to break eye contact with you again. When he does this, you slide a chair out from under the table and take the seat next to him. You turn your full attention towards him, cross your legs, and lower your voice so that he has to almost lean in to hear you.

“Look at me, Sergeant,” you say gently, regaining his attention. You put your forearm on the table, subtly sliding your fingertips toward his.

“I’m just giving you the facts. You can attempt to hide. You can attempt to live in a hole for the rest of your life. You can try to sneak off to Wakanda – yes, Mr. Stark has ears everywhere. But, however you look at this, it will end only one way: you will be found, you will get caught, and you will get sent to, let me repeat myself, a supermax facility in the middle of the Atlantic. In which you will never leave.”

Rogers speaks up from behind you. “You are one cold woman.”

“I’m honest,” you say, eyes never leaving the blue ones in front of you. “And I’m trying to help. Mr. Stark is trying to help.”

“So he’s blackmailing us?” Barnes asks. “Either participate in his program or never be seen from again.”

“No. Not at all. You don’t have to participate in – in B.A.R.F.” Your nose wrinkles at the acronym, but you continue. “You don’t have to go to therapy. You don’t have to do anything, really, although it is encouraged. You can sit in bed and watch cartoons all day, if that’s what you want. But the U.N. – and the world – they want repentance. They want to know that you are extremely contrite for your actions. And that you are making an effort at rehabilitation.”

You subtly angle your body so that your crossed legs are taking up the space inside Barnes’s open ones. It causes you to put your back to Rogers, but you figure he will understand. This arrangement is about his oldest friend’s recovery and redemption, after all. And from what you’ve picked up in the short time you’ve been around the two, the decision lies solely in Barnes’s hands, with Rogers supporting him regardless of the outcome.

“If you do decide to take Mr. Stark up on his offer to join him,” you continue, “there will have to be weekly progress meetings with a U.N. representative, but other than that, you are free to do what you please. But, if I were you, I’d try to make the most of the opportunity given to me.”

You give Barnes the chance to process everything that you’ve said to him, but after a moment you proceed with what you think is the best piece of information that you have to offer.

“Mr. Stark also worked it out so that, if you do this, you will get a full pardon from the U.N.”

You hear Rogers shift behind you. Even if this didn’t pique Barnes’s interest, it definitely did his. Barnes is just silent and still, so you find the courage to lay a gentle hand on top of his to gauge his reaction. His arm jumps slightly in response, but he allows you to leave your hand on his, so you lean forward a bit more and press on.

“If that is not a spectacularly appealing incentive, Sergeant Barnes, I don’t know what is.”

“Then what’s the catch, huh?” he asks, leaning towards you as well. “All this and I don’t even have to do anything? Nothing is ever free. Or easy.”

“Mr. Stark just wants you safe,” you say, and then glance over your shoulder at Rogers. “Both of you.”

“He wants _me_ safe?” Barnes says, disbelieving.

You gently slide your hand off of his, lightly brushing his fingers with yours as you do so, and settle your palm on the table.

“Well, mostly he wants Captain Rogers safe, if I may be honest,” you reply. “Who, might I add, has lived in Stark Tower before with little issue, so I’m told.”

“That was _before_ ,” Rogers says from behind you and you can recognize the unsaid significance of his words. You’ve been associated with Tony long enough to know their history. Before means before the incident, before the unofficial war, before they broke each others hearts because of their stubbornness and single-minded inflexibility.

You can’t change _before_. And it’s not your place to try to resolve it. So you just tell him that you understand as you rise from your chair.

You notice Barnes watching you as you stand, fingers twitching as if to reach out and intervene in your inevitable departure.

“Will you be there,” he asks, “if we do decide to take Stark up on his offer?”

“Yes,” you tell him. “I am Mr. Stark’s live-in assistant. I will be with you every step of the way.”

You give him a small, kind smile, then reach down to grab the leather duffle you carried in with you. You place it on the table between the two men and unzip it, then you pull out the folder that’s sitting on the very top.

“If all that isn’t enough,” you say, “there is one more thing that I might be able entice you with.”

You raise a well-manicured brow at Barnes as you slide the folder across the table towards him. You’re pleased at the way he maintains eye contact with you as you offer him this last incentive.

“Specs are in the folder,” you tell him. “Look it over. See how you like it.”

Barnes carefully opens the folder, and after a moment of contemplation, runs his fingers over the blueprint on the first page.

“Stark Tech,” Steve reads, upside-down.

“Lab rat,” Barnes says, repeating his statement from earlier, but this time he sounds almost wistful.

“No offense, Sergeant, but in my opinion, you do need psychological assistance.” You shrug your shoulders. “To be fair, most of us do. But if you aren’t interested in that, hopefully you’ll be interested in the promise of a new arm.”

He’s still looking at the blueprint as you speak, and you steal a glance at Rogers, who is staring at Barnes. You speak again. “A new start, maybe?”

He looks up at you now, but doesn’t say anything. He keeps his fingertips pressed against the paper in front of him. He looks lost, thrown off-track. He looks like he’s searching for guidance.

You give him another small smile.

“Think it over,” you tell him. “I know it’s a lot to process right now.”

You pull out more contents from the bag and slide it towards Barnes, this time with less ceremony.

“Here’s some more information about B.A.R.F., if you’d like to read up on it. A phone – Mr. Stark’s number is programmed into 1. If you can’t get in contact with him, my direct line is 2. Either way, I’ll probably be the one answering.”

You zip the bag back up and slide it further onto the center of the table.

“And some other things you may need, whether or not you take Mr. Stark up on his offer. I hope to speak with you again soon. Captain Rogers.” You incline your head towards the man in acknowledgment, then turn your attention back to Barnes. “Sergeant Barnes, it’s been a pleasure.”

Like gentlemen, they both stand as you leave, but Barnes takes it upon himself to walk you to the door. Rogers disappears into another room.

“I just want to get this straight,” Barnes says quietly as you both reach the door, “all I have to do is show up, and everything will be taken care of? I get help? I get an arm? And I – I get pardoned for all my crimes? For everything I’ve done?”

You can see wetness at the edge of his eyes, his face turning pink beneath stubble. He may take up all the space in the tiny entryway you two are standing in, but in this moment he just looks small and lost and vulnerable.

“Sergeant Barnes –“

“Do you know what all I’ve done?” he asks, and his voice hitches.

You reach out and lay a hand on his forearm to draw him closer to yourself. This is a rare sort of intimacy for you. And you can tell that he still isn’t used to prolonged human contact. But he needs the guidance, and you believe that he deserves the help. You can’t let him pass up this opportunity.

“If I thought for any reason that you did those things with even a fragment of autonomy, I wouldn’t be here. You’re not what they say you are. You are Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. You are war hero. And from what I know, you’re a good man.”

Without saying anything else, you two just watch each other for a moment. You believe, without doubt, what you said, and you want him to as well. You run your fingertips down his forearm and then squeeze his hand in yours.

“Don’t overthink it, alright? Let us take care of you. And, if you need me, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says as he gives you a small smile, the first one you’ve seen from him, and you can’t help but smile back. You give his hand one last squeeze then draw back, placing it on the doorknob instead.

“I really do hope to hear from you soon, Sergeant Barnes,” you say to him. “I would hate for our only meeting to be under these circumstances.”

You turn before he can say anything else and open the door, walking out into the sunlight and towards the sleek, black car that you drove there in. Before you open the car door, you look back to the house and Barnes is still standing in the doorway, watching you as you go. You give him a lingering wave, one he returns, before you slide in to your car and head back to Stark Tower.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How about we throw in a little hot-rod red?” Tony asks, breaking the silence. “Red and gold? We’ll match. You can be Iron Boy.”
> 
> or
> 
> You comfort Bucky as he gets a new arm.

* * *

* * *

 

You’re in your office when FRIDAY notifies you that Barnes and Rogers are in the private access lobby of the tower. Your chest constricts at the sudden news. It had been over three weeks since you met with the two men. You’ve given up hoping that they would take Tony up on his offer, but now here they are, and you find yourself jumping to your feet after hearing the AI’s announcement.

Very few people use the private access entrance of the tower, so the lobby is predictably quiet. When you step off of the elevator, Barnes and Rogers have their backs turned to you, speaking to each other in low voices. The click of your heels echo through the room as you walk towards them, and when they hear you, they both turn around.

Rogers looks resigned. Barnes looks lost and bewildered. They both look like they’re ready to make a run for it at any moment, but they’re holding bags so you figure they’re planning on staying.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes,” you greet them, extending your hand for them to each shake. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. We weren’t expecting you, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“So this is Stark Tower, huh?” Barnes asks after shaking your hand. “It’s even gaudier than in the pictures.”

You laugh. “Well, it’s not without its perks. Why don’t you follow me?”

You lead them to the private elevator, and all three of you pile in. It stays grounded, though, and the doors remain open.

“ ** _Good afternoon. Would you like me to reinstate Captain Rogers’s clearance, Miss?”_**   FRIDAY asks as small, electric-blue lights blink in a staccato rhythm overhead.

“Yes, FRIDAY,” you reply. “Thank you. And please set up a profile for Sergeant Barnes as well.”

A screen lights up on the anterior elevator wall, and you take a step sideways to allow Barnes to reach it. “Sergeant,” you say, motioning for him to stand in front of the screen. You remain near to him as he moves closer, placing yourself between him and the side elevator wall.

Barnes keeps his arms tight to his sides, so as to not brush against you, but you don’t make it easy for him. You _could_ give him more room. Like all things in Stark Tower, the elevator is a sizeable one, but you’re in high spirits and Barnes is cute when he’s shy, so you make sure the space between you two is almost nonexistent before speaking again.

“Please place your fingertips and palm against the screen,” you instruct him. “FRIDAY’s going to take your impression.”

He looks at you uncertainly, but then places his hand on the screen. A blue light makes a quick sweep across his palm, and after it’s finished, he swiftly pulls back.

“Good. And now a retinal scan,” you say. “Just face forward, stay still, and keep your eyes open. Yes, just like that. There will be a quick scan and – all done.”

He blinks a few times and then looks back down at you. You give him a smile.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

**_“Sergeant Barnes now has clearance to access floors 81 through 93 of Stark Tower.”_ **

“Include floor 78 as well, FRIDAY,” you say, keeping eye contact with the man.

**_“Certainly, Miss.”_ **

The elevator door closes and the three of you start your smooth ascent up the tower. You turn to face the two men.

“Mr. Stark is out for the time being,” you tell them, “but he’s been informed that you’re here, and will be back shortly. For now, I’ll give you a brief tour.”

Rogers leans back against the wall of the elevator, but Barnes remains by your side. Both mean look at you as you continue.

“Stark Tower is the first completely clean energy powered skyscraper in Manhattan, becoming the standard for future development around the world. Floors 1 through 78 of the tower belong to Stark Industries. 1, being the public lobby and reception, moving up to general business, design and testing, labs, R&D, meeting and boardrooms, and Mr. Stark’s office, which is located on floor 78, along with my own.”

You give Barnes a meaningful look, wondering if he realizes that you’ve given him access to your personal office, but he doesn’t seem to comprehend, so you carry on.

“Floor 79 is Mr. Stark’s personal workshop, 80 is his apartment, and 81 is the party deck. 82 through 93 is residential, which includes private quarters, a kitchen, gym, and common rooms. This is where you two will be staying.”

Elevator finally comes to a halt, and the doors slide open to reveal a sunlit room.

“As special guests, Mr. Stark has given you two the penthouse,” you say. “He figured you may like the privacy. This floor has a living area, and two bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. Unfortunately, the only residential kitchen is on floor 87. Mr. Stark thinks it makes his guests more communal.”

“Vision is a permanent fixture here,” you explain, “but he spends most of his time in the library, so your probably won’t see him very much Dr. Banner stays from time to time, along with young man named Peter, ever so often.”

“And I’ll be right underneath you,” you continue, looking directly at Barnes as you speak, “if you were to need me outside of business hours. Floor 92. Other than that, this is all yours.”

You show the men to their rooms. Rogers is already familiar with the layout of the tower and its interior, having lived there before. You leave him to get settled and show Barnes his own bedroom.

“The floor to ceiling windows offer a beautiful view of the city. And, because the room is on the east side of the building, you can wake up with the sunrise, if you’d life.”

Barnes drops his bags on the floor and walks over to you in front of the windows. He puts his hand on the glass and looks out over the buildings. “It’s incredible,” he says, obviously in awe.

“This is your home now, too. Feel free to explore,” you tell him. “I have some work to finish up, but FRIDAY knows how to reach me. I’ll only be a few floors down.”

**_“I’ll be happy to assist, Miss.”_ **

Barnes turns to you, but doesn’t say anything. You can tell that’s he’s still on the defensive, but you don’t know what to say to set his mind at ease. Not yet, anyway. You figure he just needs some time.

“I’m glad you decided to take us up on our offer,” you say. “Mr. Stark’s offer. This is a very good thing, I promise. You just have to be receptive to what’s being given to you.”

* * *

 

It’s been a little over a week since Barnes and Rogers had arrived, and you haven’t either of the men since. You’re disappointed, but not surprised. Your time usually consists of working late and eating take-out food, meaning you had no reason to go to the penthouse or the kitchen. And Barnes had no reason to come to your floor or your office. So you find yourself constantly thinking about how he’s there, but he’s still out of reach, and you were too busy to figure out how to bridge the divide.

Tony assured you that they’ve somewhat put their differences aside, for the sake of the Treaty at least. And for Rogers’s peace of mind. He said that he even brought Barnes to his lab a few times to get his opinion on the prosthetic he’s been working on.

**_“Miss, Mr. Stark would like to see you in his lab when you are available.”_ **

“Thank you, FRIDAY,” you reply. “Tell him I will be there right away.”

You’re grateful for the distraction, and let out a sigh of relief as you pack up your half eaten lunch so you can toss it in the trashcan in the hall. You turn off your computer and pack it up as well before making your way to the elevator.

When you get there, you are both pleasantly surprised and startled near to speechlessness. Tony is there, of course, along with Barnes and Rogers, and an apprehensive-looking Dr. Bruce Banner.

You gather yourself quickly and walk towards Banner first. At least he looks as awkward in this situation as you feel. “Bruce,” you greet him, holding his shoulders and lightly touching your cheek to his in a mock-kiss. “It’s good to see you again.”

He grins and tells you the same before you turn and acknowledge the two super soldiers in the room.

“Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, I trust you’ve settled in comfortably.”

“Barnes here is a big baby,” Tony says before they can answer. “Wouldn’t let me get started before you got here.”

Barnes looks away, sheepish, smoothing down the hair on the back his neck. “Well, I thought that you’d maybe want to be here. You said ‘every step of the way,’ right?”

You flash him a smile. “That I did,” you say. “But I’m not too sure what’s going on?”

“We’re gonna put a new can opener on the Terminator over here,” Tony tells you, and it takes you a moment to realize what he’s saying.

“Oh. _Oh._ Tony, it would have been nice to have some prior notice!”

“Consider yourself notified,” he says before turning to Barnes. “Alright, Heavy Metal, now can we begin? I’ma need you topless.”

Barnes’s eyes timidly flicker to you before he reaches behind his head with his one hand to grab his shirt. You turn around and sit your bag down on a table, busying yourself by looking for something inside of it, to give the man a little privacy.

When you turn around, Tony is handing you a neatly folded shirt, still body-warm from being against Barnes’s skin. You place it next to your bag as he makes himself comfortable in a chair set up especially for this procedure.

“So, the arm is basically an iceberg,” Tony starts to explains. “What we see of it on the surface is only a fraction of what’s underneath. Almost the entirety of his upper body has been modified, from shoulder to shoulder, down to his rib cage. His skeletal structure has been reconstructed not only to correct the original damage, but also to attach the prosthetic. The shoulder joint is fortified and layered with metal, which has also been soldered to the scapula, clavicle, ribs, and spine.”

Tony maps out his words on Barnes’s skin, lights tracing the paths that Tony makes across his chest and down his ribs. They illuminate Barnes in a soft blue glow, making his skin glisten, his already luminous eyes burn even brighter.

“It’s also attached to his upper body muscles,” Tony continues. “Trapezius, pecs, coracobrachialis, just to name a few. There’s neural receptors in place, which means that the arm is wired into his nervous system. And his skin has been regrafted over the metal.”

“So we are talking attachments to his skeletal, muscular, integumentary, and nervous systems,” Bruce clarifies. “Essentially, half of his body.”

“My God,” Rogers murmurs.

Bruce shakes his head, brows knitting together. “How do you know this? Do you have an X-ray?”

Barnes scoffs, as if the answer should be obvious. “I was there when they did it.”

You suck in a breath when you realize the implications of his words. You hadn’t realized the true extent of the pain and torment that Barnes has gone through, how every day must have been torture, even from the very beginning. You think about them taking him apart, crudely piecing him back together again. You wonder if that’s what he’s thinking about now.

“Obviously, it would be less invasive if we keep the part that’s still attached,” Tony says. “We’ll just secure the new arm to the old joint and connect the neural receptors.”

Bruce nods his head. “That definitely sounds like the best option.”

“Great!” Tony says, clapping his hands together as he turns back to Barnes. “My lovely associate here will be your nurse for today. She’s here to make sure you are as comfortable as possible. And, um, I can still administer that anesthetic,” he continues, a lot softer, “if you’ve changed your mind.”

“No, I – I can’t,” he says. “I want to be aware.”

“It probably won’t hurt anyway,” Tony tells him. “Maybe not. Possibly. Shouldn’t take very long, regardless. We’ve already gone over all the schematics and the pieces are built. The green-guy and I just have to put them together.”

He had been working on this project for the better part of a year, almost since the Schism. You had stayed up with him some nights, going through countless diagrams and building models – from faux-flesh covered arms to roughly built tin can appendages. He has dealt with his pain and misery this way. Some days he was remorseful and generous. Others, he was angry and vengeful.

You’d like to think that he has worked through the pain, but you know how grief works well enough. And as happy as you were for Barnes for getting this new arm, _this new start_ , you were just as happy for Tony for seeking out some sort of reprieve.

“Barnes, meet the olive branch,” Tony says, wheeling over a table to reveal the shining parts of his new arm. “As we discussed, the arm is a gold-titanium alloy – the same metal as my own suit. We have three separate pieces: upper arm, forearm, and hand. We have a genius, a doctor, a nurse, and an old guy, which makes up all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, and it’s time to put you back together again.”

Barnes tries to smile at Tony’s joke, but you can tell that he’s tensing already. He presses himself flat against the back of the chair, his right arm gripping the armrest tightly. Mouth open, he readies himself, waiting for something, but then he snaps it back closed so hard that your own teeth rattle.

“I trust Tony with my life,” you say, trying to ease Barnes’s fears. “There’s no need to worry.”

Tony and Bruce begin the procedure, talking quietly to each other as they work. The have to fix the damaged parts that are already attached to Barnes, which they said would be the worst part. After that, it would be a breeze. Or as easy as it could be surgically connecting a cybernetic prosthetic to a person.

Rogers is hovering over the pair, asking questions and apparently blocking their light. He speaks to Barnes ever so often in a careful tone, telling him that it really doesn’t look as bad as it would seem.

You stand beside Barnes on the opposite side of the men, watching, but not really knowing what to do. You pet the back of his hand, still gripping the armrest.

“Does it hurt?” you ask him.

“No,” he replies, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the tight flex of his human arm. He’s starting to sweat and his eyes have a far-away look in them that worries you.

You place a tender hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him down. His skin is hot and damp despite the mild temperature in the lab. You squeeze his shoulder gently, then move upwards, putting pressure on the tight muscle at the valley of his neck.

“Do you mind?” you ask him and he shakes his head, so you move behind his chair and tell him to relax.

You place your fingertips on his temples, moving them in constant, slow circles. Your motions are soft and tender, and eventually, Barnes leans his head back and closes his eyes. You trace his eyebrows with your thumbs, then slide them down the side of his face to the sharp contour of his cheekbones. You stop rubbing his temples and follow the curve of his jawline with your fingers, enthralled by the way his rough stubble feels against your soft skin.

The dialogue between Tony and Bruce is beginning to become background noise. Barnes’s head is still tilted back, eyes closed, and the creases between them have smoothed out into a more serene expression. His shoulders have settled and he finally looks relaxed.

You move your hands back up and run your fingers through his hair. The strands are thick, but soft and clean, and you’re glad he wore it loose today. The way he’s leaning back has it fanned out against the headrest, flowing back so that you can see his face. You use this time to study him, running your eyes freely over his features.

He’s gorgeous, without a doubt. From the ridge of his brow to the slope of his nose, the valley between the peaks of his upper lip, and the strong cleft of his chin. They may have broken his body, but they didn’t take this away from him. You figure even monsters can appreciate real beauty when they see it.

You smooth his hair back and place your palms on the back of his head, finding the hollow where his neck meets his skull, and gently press on it. Barnes lets out a low sigh that only you seem to notice. You massage the space with your fingertips, gradually increasing the pressure.

“How do you feel now, Sergeant?”

The side of his mouth quirks up into a smirk, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Never been better.”

You run your fingers back up into his hair and begin to graze his scalp with your nails, softly scratching it in tiny patterns from the base of his head to his hairline. You gently pull at the strands between your fingers, relishing the hushed sounds that Barnes either doesn’t realize he’s making or doesn’t care.

You rotate between scratching his scalp and lightly tugging on his hair, enjoying how the gradual rise and fall of his bare chest starts moving in faster waves. You do this for a while – massaging and scratching and tugging – until it turns into a natural rhythm that you don’t have to even think about anymore.

You don’t know how long it’s been before Tony drops his tools. “Alright!” he exclaims, making both you and Barnes jump in surprise. “I think we’re finished. Come check it out!”

You slide your fingers from Barnes’s hair and smooth down the tousled strands before moving to stand at his left side. “It looks amazing,” you say to no one in particular.

“It really is,” Tony says. “If I may say so myself. It’s receptive to all the sensations that a flesh and blood hand would be: pressure, texture, etc. But, with some added benefits. Extreme heat or cold won’t hurt it, and it’s not easily dented or damaged. Other than that, it should act as if it’s his own arm.”

You find yourself reaching out to touch it, but you stop yourself before you do.

“May I?” you ask Barnes, hand hovering over his own.

He nods his head and offers you his hand, slowly turning it so that his palm is facing upwards. You carefully place your fingertips against his palm, delicately stroking the metal.

“Can you feel that?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he says, bending his fingers to place the tips against your palm, mimicking your movements by stroking your soft flesh. The metallic digits have no harsh ridges or seams, and you wonder at the way that they move without hinges.

“This is incredible, Tony,” you say in admiration. “Beautiful.”

You can’t help yourself. You hold his hand in one of yours and run your other up his forearm, from his wrist to the hollow of his elbow. You swipe your thumb along the crease, in awe of the craftsmanship. You examine the subtle joint, how one piece is almost indistinguishable from another. It feels like a natural part of the man. You never thought something as simple as an elbow could be captivating, but it is.

“Can you feel this?” you ask, bringing your other hand up to meet its partner, stroking the metal above his joint. By the look on his face, you already know the answer.

“It is _very_ sensitive,” he admits to you, almost in a whisper.

“It has smoother edges than his last one,” Tony explains. “Almost imperceptible hinges. Quieter, too. It should be an exact replica of his arm. Just… metal.”

And it _is_ smooth, like his own arm dipped in liquid silver. The metal is ungiving, but it’s sleek and warm and surprisingly pleasant to the touch. Above his elbow, the arm swells where his muscle would be, bigger and wider than both of your hands wrapped around it.

You continue upwards, your hands reaching the vulnerable place where his arm and shoulder meet. He flinches a bit but doesn’t move otherwise. The juxtaposition between the texture of the new metal and the old is shocking. Even the temperature of the two is distinct, and you wonder if Barnes can feel the difference.

“Do you think I made the right decision?” he asks, looking up at you. “Should I have gone more natural?”

“I absolutely think you made the right decision,” you tell him. “But what do _you_ think?”

He smiles and looks down at his arm. “It’s not so bad.”

You don’t stop running your hands over his shoulder, worn metal fringed by scarred flesh. His skin is hot and sweat-slick when you touch it, raised pink at the seam. You follow it like a path with your fingers, all the way down to his chest.

Steve clears his throat behind you. You look at him from over your shoulder, and notice that Tony and Bruce are looking at you as well. They’ve been quiet, watching you explore Barnes’s body. You pull your hands away and take a step back, an apology on your lips.

“How about we throw in a little hot-rod red?” Tony asks, breaking the silence. “Red and gold? We’ll match. You can be Iron Boy.”

“I don’t think so,” Barnes replies, but there’s a small smirk on his lips.

“A rebranding, then?” Tony retorts, holding both of his thumbs and index fingers up to frame Barnes’s shoulder where you know a red star once was. “What about the Stark Industries logo?”

“No, Tony,” you say.

“Stark Tech? Stars and stripes?”

“Nah, that’s more Cap’s thing,” Bruce replies with a smirk.

Tony pretends to think for a moment, hand on his jaw, but you know his wheels are turning. With a snap of his fingers, he turns to Barnes, pointing, and says, “How about the Avengers?”

The room silences. Even the mechanical whir of computer systems and background projects seem far away. No one really knowing what to say. It’s too soon, too fresh. Even you can feel the tension, though you know that you can’t really understand.

“Little ‘A’ with an arrow?” Tony continues as he looks around the room.

“Tony –“ you chide, and he seems to have already gotten the hint.

“No?” he asks as he hands Barnes his discarded shirt, still neatly folded. “Well, we can always add to it later.”

You shake your head, choosing to ignore him.

“Do you still feel alright, Sergeant Barnes?” you ask as he slips the t-shirt on, to your quiet dismay. “Do you need anything?”

“You know, you don’t have to call me ‘Sergeant Barnes,’” he tells you, pulling at the hem of his shirt. “And you don’t have to call Steve ‘Captain Rogers’ either. He’s not that important.”

He gives you a wink, obviously more relaxed and content than he was earlier, and sits back in the chair.

“We still have to run some tests on the arm,” Tony says. “Make sure everything is working A-ok.”

“What kind of tests?” Steve asks.

“Just simple motor skills,” Tony replies. “Writing in cursive, playing Call of Duty, jerking off. Everyday stuff.”

Steve flushes pink at his words and you just roll your eyes.

“I’m joking,” Tony says. “Sort of. You’re used to using a prosthetic arm, so you should catch on to the mechanics of it fairly quickly. Just go easy with it for today. Give it some time, feel it out. Then, maybe tomorrow you can go gym and we really see what this baby can do.”

James nods and you watch as he flexes his new fingers, rolls his wrist. He strokes the metal of his arm with his other hand, caressing the sleek machinery for the first time, tracing the path that your own hand followed.

Your fingers twitch with the phantom feeling of metal against your skin, already aching to touch him again. Aching for him to touch you.

James turns to Tony with a look on his face that you can describe only as gratitude and shakes his hand. He shakes Bruce’s too and smiles, thanking them. Steve laughs, giving the metal shoulder a friendly punch, and all of the sudden, the room breaks out in celebration.

Bruce and Tony are talking excitedly, patting each other on the back. Steve does the same. They start saying something about champagne and carry out, but you’re just looking at James, can’t take your eyes off of him. He turns to you, a big, goofy grin on his face and he places his hand on top of your own.

“You said it,” he reminds you. “A new start.”

He’s bright and beaming, brushing his fingers against yours, coaxing your hand up so you two are fingertip to fingertip. He looks at the place where you’re touching, the sleek, shining metal contrasting against your skin. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“Thank you. If it were not for you –“ he starts to say, but then he pauses and simply laces his fingers with your own. “Just… thank you.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, security, huh?” he muses. “Miss ‘please-and-thank you’ is the Invincible Iron Man’s muscle?”
> 
> or
> 
> You and Bucky spar, and you reveal to him more about yourself than you planned.

“Stark. Get. Up!”

You nudge Tony with your foot, trying to coax him off of the ground, but all you manage to do is to roll him onto his back. You send a sigh up to the heavens, then take a knee beside your boss and give his shoulder a few pats.

“Come on, Tony,” you say. “Let’s do this one more time. Twentieth time’s the charm. Up!”

“Let me put on my suit,” he says from his place on the floor. “I’ll go all day with you.”

You stand up and hold out your hand to Tony, sighing again when he doesn’t take it. You hear the door open and when you look up, you see that James has walked into the gym. You throw him a smile and while your attention is turned away, Tony rolls under the ropes of the ring and gets to his feet on the floor.

Tony tags James as he passes him on his way out of the door, a spring in his step you wouldn’t have thought he had just a moment ago. “Have fun!” he calls over his shoulder and you don’t know whether he’s talking to you or James, but neither of you reply.

James ducks under the ropes and joins you in the ring. He seems revitalized, lighter in spirit than the previous times that you’ve seen him. As he steps closer to you, you find yourself having to tilt your head up to look at him. He’s taller than you, you already knew that, but without your heels on it’s just that much more _obvious_. James is big and broad, with wide shoulders and thick arms and legs. He’s wearing soft shorts and shirt that should not fit anybody as well as it does him.

“So, what are you?” he asks, flipping his water bottle in the air, then catching it. “His assistant -slash- ass kicker -slash- ?”

“Security, associate,” you reply. “All of the above. He keeps a small circle now, as you would imagine.”

He looks away, those broad shoulders slumping just slightly as if a weight had been put on them. You inwardly berate yourself for being the cause of that heaviness.

“How’s the arm, Sergeant?” you ask, trying to change the subject.

“It’s perfect, actually,” he says, but he’s still not looking at you. He’s looking at his arm, flexing his metals fingers like he did the day before. “I’m halfway afraid to admit it.”

“It looks good on you,” you tell him. James looks back up at you after you speak and you can swear that a blush rises to his cheeks.

“Yeah, well… as good as a metal arm can, am I right?” he replies. Then it’s his turn to change the subject. “So, security, huh?” he muses. “Miss ‘please-and-thank you’ is the Invincible Iron Man’s muscle?”

You laugh and shrug. “Yeah, something like that,” you say. “I’m a woman of many layers.”

“I have no doubt about that,” he replies. “And not saying you’re not incredibly intimidating, but um, the people who I assume would be going after Stark aren’t exactly normal, you do know that right? They’re super soldiers, super assassins, genetically modified, part of criminal networks, or otherwise fucked in the head. Excuse my language, miss.”

You nod your head. “I’d say that’s an accurate estimation.”

“See, if I were a bad guy,” he begins to say, but stops himself. “Let’s say I was the Winter Soldier. I don’t think I’d have much trouble coming in here and taking what I wanted. I don’t know if you could stop me. No offense, sweetheart.”

“Is that what you think, Sergeant Barnes?” you ask with a smirk.

He does nothing as you approach him, just watches you with calculating eyes. You pluck his water bottle out of his hands and, despite his protests, you sit it in the corner of the ring farthest away from him. His brows are raised as you return to him, but you speak before he asks what you’re doing.

“That water’s yours right?” you ask him. “You want it back? How about you go get it then.”

“What?”

“Go get it,” you repeat. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have much trouble.”

You stand between him and the corner where the water bottle is. You give his shoulder a push, but he hardly moves. This is going to be more challenging than you were expecting, but it’s a challenge that you’ll rise to.

“Or are you all talk?” you continue. “All those big muscles just for show?”

James gives you a smirk and rolls his eyes. As he walks passed you, you use your left foot to kick his knee out, making it buckle underneath him. His knee hits the ground, but he catches himself before the other falls. He stays in that stance for a moment, trying to figure out what just happened.

He looks up at you, wide-eyed. “You kicked me.”

“I did,” you reply. “Get up and I’ll do it again.”

He shakes his head as he smirks, tongue wrapping around the front of his teeth. He stands up, slow and smooth, and your heartbeat starts to speed up in anticipation.

“You sure about this?” he asks and you can’t do anything but nod your head.

He makes his way towards you, more deliberate this time. He has a feral look in his eyes and it makes you take a few steps back before you correct yourself. He takes a few punches and you dodge them although you can tell that they weren’t aimed to actually hit you.

He’s backing you into the corner, so you come at him with a knee to his torso, but it barely makes him move. After, you lunge at him, grabbing him by the shoulders then swinging your legs up to wrap around his body and throw him to the ground.

He rolls backwards, out of your range, and quickly gets to his feet. His hair has fallen out of its elastic and is over his shoulders, in his face. He looks wild… beautiful. His expression is almost playful when he comes at you again.

His fighting relies on strength and stamina. He’s good on his feet, where he can draw power from his legs. His stance is low and his punches are aimed at your core. You’ve been trying to use your speed and agility to counter him, but none of that matters now. Now, it’s more grappling than sparring. Even when one of you do try standing, the other is at their ankles or knees, bringing them back down to the mat. The water bottle is otherwise forgotten.

He’s on top of you now, holding you down. His flesh hand is against your throat with barely any pressure, just the promise of danger if this were a real fight. His other hand is holding on to the back of your thigh where they’re wrapped on either side of his neck.

“Where’d you learn all this?” he asks, staring down at you.

You push your hips up and slide the crook of your knee behind his neck, hooking the front of your ankle behind the calf of your other leg in a half-hearted attempt at a triangle choke. Instead of you forcing his arm off of your neck and across his body, you let him plant his palm on the mat next to you as you bring his head forward against your chest.

His body goes lax on top of yours, his forearm on the ground the only thing keeping all of his weight off of you. You don’t know whether he’s surrendering or just taking a breather, but you figure he won’t be doing much to get away as you try to explain.

“I was raised with the monks of Shao-Lom on Titan moon,” you tell him, your voice breathy from exertion and the added weight of his head on your chest. “They taught me that all limitations are imposed upon the self by oneself.”

You can feel him start to move so you uncross your legs and let him free. You flip both of you over so you’re straddling him, thighs on either side of his head, knees on the mat. His arms are trapped between your thighs and calves and you’re holding him down at the wrists.

“Your weaknesses, constraints, inhibitions, are all self-imposed.”

He cocks his eyebrow at you. “My weaknesses?” he asks.

He uses his arms underneath your thighs to flip you forward and off of him. You roll onto your back then pivot on your toes, body still low to the ground, to face him. He’s starting to stand when you pounce on him again, swinging your legs around his body to slam him back onto the mat. He lands on his chest, you on top of him to keep him down.

You’re straddling his hips, one hand in his hair pressing his cheek to the mat, the other holding his human arm twisted behind his back. He’s bigger than you, stronger; if he really tried he could get away, but instead he lets you pin him down, press your chest against his back as you continue to speak.

“Once you accept the fact that your restrictions are a product of your own making, you can _be_ whoever you want. You can _do_ whatever you want.”

You let go of his hair and bring your hand to his shoulder, then you slide it up his metal arm where it’s stretched out above him. He’s long-limbed and you can only reach to the other side of his elbow. It’s not a good place to gain any kind of leverage, but you hold on to the warm alloy anyway, feel the almost imperceptible shift in the plates of his arm.

Your whole body is against his now – calves against the outside of his thighs, your own thighs cradling his hips, stomach and chest flush against his strong back, outstretched arm holding his down. His submission makes you grow bolder, and as you speak, you allow your lips to brush against the shell of his ear.

“Can you imagine it, Sergeant?” you whisper. “A life without chains.”

You release his bowed arm but he keeps it bent behind his back and grabs on to your wrist to keep you against him when you start to move away. Your heart flutters at the deliberate contact, and you understand the desire to touch without some veil or excuse to explain it away.

You lean your forehead against the valley between his shoulder blades and press your palm against his, trapped between your bodies.

“I kinda like my chains,” he confesses.

You didn’t hear the door open, but you do hear it close, and when you look up, Steve is standing there, staring at the two of you. You stay on top of James, just for a heartbeat longer, before you roll off of him and rise to your feet.

“Maybe another day you can demonstrate just how easy it would be for you to _take what you want_ ,” you say, and let the double meaning sink in before moving to pick up his water bottle, still sitting in the corner where you placed it. “Until then, _sweetheart_.”

He turns over and sits up, legs out in front of him and hands back for support. He doesn’t reply, just watches you as you place the water bottle in the space between his spread knees. You duck under the ropes and jump down from the ring, picking up your bag and shoes from their place on the floor and continue heading towards the door.

“Captain Rogers,” you say as you pass Steve.

“Ma’am.”

Before the door closes all the way you hear Steve ask, “What the _fuck_ was that?”

* * *

 

Your heart is still pounding when you reach your bedroom. All you want is a nice, long shower and some time to process what happened this morning. You’ve revealed a part of yourself that few people know and you’re sure that James is eventually going to come back to you with questions.

Your door is slightly ajar when you get to it. You consider turning around, coming back with the knife you’ve hidden under the common room table or the gun between the cushions of the couch, but you decide against it. Whoever is or was in your room wanted you to know they were there, otherwise they would have closed the door the way they found it.

Hesitantly, you push the door open. Someone is sitting on the bench at the foot of your bed, but they don’t turn when you enter.

“Natalia?” you say as you close the door behind you. “Does Tony know that you’re here?”

She looks over her shoulder at you and smiles, tight-lipped. “I’m sure he does by now.” She stands up and walks toward you. “Aren’t you happy to see an old friend?” she asks.

You drop your bag and shoes on the floor and close the distance between her and yourself. “Depends on why that friend is here,” you reply.

“I heard you have a couple new acquisitions to your project. Just coming to check them out,” she tells you and then puts a hand up to stop you before you speak. “I’m impressed. After all that’s happened: the Accords, the War, the Schism, you’ve convinced Tony to go rogue. I didn’t think it would happen.”

“That has nothing to do with –“

“James Barnes wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you,” she continues. “Tony doesn’t care about his well-being that much. Steve, maybe. You must have pulled a lot of strings. Called in a lot of favors.”

You step closer to Nat, imposing yourself into her space. It’s been years since you’ve seen the woman, and now she’s here, making assumptions and accusations. She has some _nerve_ , but you expect no less from her. _And she’s not wrong._

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” you tell her anyway.

“I know Stark. I know Rogers even more. And I know Barnes, better than anyone can imagine,” she says, taking note of your covetous expression and cocking an eyebrow. “And I know you, _lunaka moya._ My little moon. I know what all this means to you. But you are going down a very dangerous road.”

“How would you suggest I make it safer?” you ask.

“Complete transparency. They need to know who the Moondragon really is. _From you._ Before they find out from _someone else_.”

You two are chest to chest when you say, “I hope you came here with more than just threats, Natalia.”

She runs her fingertips up your arms, but you don’t move. Her hands continue their journey up the sides of your neck where she buries them in your hair. She tugs, hard enough to yank your head back and bare your throat to her.

“Oh, she sighs, lips fluttering against the sensitive skin of your throat. “If I was threatening you, you’d know it.”

Her mouth moves from your neck to your jaw, then across your cheek to your lips. Before you realize it, your hands are on her waist, holding her body close to yours. She kisses you softly, softer than you’ve ever remembered her kissing you before. She grows greedy quickly, though, tongue seeking at yours then pulling away, teasing, when she finds it.

Nat cups your cheeks in her hands, tilting your face where she wants it and pressing her mouth harder against yours. Your teeth nip her plump bottom lip and she groans, pressing her hips flush to yours.

**_“Pardon me, but Mr. Stark requests to see Ms. Romanoff in his office as soon as possible.”_ **

Nat’s lips are still pressed against yours as FRIDAY speaks, but she pulls away after, eyes drifting over your face. The corner of her mouth pulls up in a half smirk before she gives you one last kiss. She slides her hands from your face and gives you a lingering once-over before turning around and heading to the door.

“Oh, and another suggestion,” she says, fingers on the doorknob. “Don’t delude yourself. We all have chains –“

“Natalia! How…?”

 “— and they grow link by link until they get long enough that you can either hang yourself with them or give yourself enough slack. _That’s_ the choice you have.”

She opens the door before you can reply and walks out. She doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting next chapter, there will be some kind of smutty goodness in almost every installation of this fic! Yay! And also, I based the character’s backstory off of another Marvel character, Heather Douglas. She’s awesome. Look her up!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you like it! Please leave comments and criticisms below!


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